


Begin Something New

by apidologist



Category: Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson (TV Russia), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Post-Hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 12:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2310338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apidologist/pseuds/apidologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I never do get your limits, Watson." </p>
<p>Our protagonists work through some post-Hiatus awkwardness, inspired by that memorable scene in the Soviet series in which I am shocked that no one is kissing - I should say, one of the scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vernets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vernets/gifts).



“Holmes?” I finally spoke, the sound muffled against the low ceiling and thick layer of dust on the floorboards.  
  
“Yes, Watson?” He turned to face me, still obscured by his hat, scarf, and tinted spectacles, despite the darkness and emptiness of the room we occupied. I said nothing, as there was no easy way of telling Holmes that although I had no doubts as to his identity, I needed to see his face to be completely certain that today’s events had not all been a dream.  
  
I hesitated slightly when my fingers brushed the brim, but Holmes gave me a near-imperceptible nod of encouragement and smiled in omniscient understanding, so I resumed, half-expecting some kind of smoke-and-mirrors trick in which the man beneath the hat would dissolve and disintegrate as soon as I took it in my hand. Still smiling, Holmes adjusted his scarf and pulled his spectacles slowly down his nose, secreting them away in a jacket pocket, and I regarded him curiously, as I did when Stamford introduced us that fateful day in January so long ago. He had hardly changed from that young, enigmatic, incredible fellow who bragged to me over his table of chemicals about the success of an experiment, and yet it was clear that the trials of the past three years had affected him deeply.  
  
He was indeed alive and standing before me, but merely seeing him was no longer enough. I cannot be certain as to what finally drove me to act – it could have resulted from the release of years of sorrow and regret, or my elation and the residual shock of having Holmes appear before me, alive and all in one piece, or sheer impulsivity – but I took the small step necessary to close the space between us and enclosed Holmes in a tight embrace, still clutching his hat and nearly crushing the brim in my fingers. Tears formed in my eyes for the third time that day as we stood in the dusty room, leaning against one another for support.   
  
“Please, Watson, you mustn’t grieve any longer. I’ve returned to London, I’m wrapping up another case, my Watson is by my side – everything is quite as it should be! Of course…” He hesitated. “Of course it would be understandable if--”  
  
“Not at all, Holmes!  It’s only that I can’t help but feel as though I’ll awaken at any moment, and you will be gone.”  
  
“You…still trust me?”  
  
“Completely.”  
  
We stood nearly nose to nose, arms loosely draped around one another.   
  
“I never do get your limits, Watson.”  
  
And with that, he tilted his head a fraction of an inch and leaned in even further. The thrill I felt when I realized what he intended to do was extremely short-lived, however – as Holmes’ upper lip tickled at my moustache, we heard footsteps on the stairs without, and just before the door grated open, we managed to hide ourselves away in the darkest corner of the room.   
  
As we stood shoulder-to-shoulder, willing our hearts to beat more quietly, Colonel Sebastian Moran entered cautiously, crossed the room in a few strides, and knelt at the window with his air-gun beside him. Holmes had my cuff pinned between his thumb and forefinger, but his eyes were fixed on the Colonel’s every movement. In mere moments he had deftly assembled the gun and taken aim with confidence. We could hear him exhaling slowly as he aligned his eye to the sight and made rapid, minute adjustments from his shoulders down to his fingertips, as a bird of prey would before diving and swooping in on its next meal. Holmes also was tensed like a coil against my side. Then the shot was fired, and the sound of our sitting room window shattering spurred us to action.  
  
Holmes tackled the man to the ground, I leaped to assist him, and seconds later, Lestrade was among us with his bluster and handcuffs. There were many questions to be answered, but fortunately the inspector was placated (at least temporarily) after a much-simplified explanation of the circumstances leading up to this evening’s event, and Holmes soon returned to my side with a subdued smile.  
  
“A most satisfactory conclusion, eh Watson? Would you care to accompany me back over to the old rooms for a chat and a late supper? I’m sure Mrs. Hudson could put something together for us.”   
  
While this sounded like the Holmes I remembered, I was unable to take my mind from his actions not twenty minutes before. Yet, something in his voice implored me to do just that. I voiced my approval of Holmes’ suggestion in a nonchalant manner, and with a few parting words toward Lestrade, we departed to our flat.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been almost a month since Holmes had returned to our lodgings at Baker Street. On the one hand, we were able to resume our old routine, but on the other, our interactions could be strange, fragile, or even forced at times. Both of us were aware of this, but still we clung to the comfort of the past as only broken men can, and relied on Time to smooth over any awkwardness between us. This awkwardness was no doubt amplified by his unwillingness and my wariness to discuss things fully. Certainly I held a great affection for him, and I believed he must have returned these sentiments to some extent – the emotion plainly visible on his face as he explained his long absence and begged me not to weep was enough to convince me of this – but if he regretted his intentions on the evening of his return (which seemed likely, considering his silence on the subject), I had no desire to offend his dignity or sensibility.

That night I had returned late from my practice and joined Holmes in the sitting room after a cold supper. We stared into the fire, each consumed by his own thoughts. Holmes’ fingers were tapping the melody to some erratic bit of music while his slippered foot conducted the tune. He was between cases, and bound to be a little restless, so I mentioned cautiously that it had been some time since I had heard his violin. After a moment of unresponsiveness, he silently crossed the room and knelt to flick open the clasps of the leather case. He tightened the horsehair of the bow, probably keenly aware that he had not been the last one to do so (though he thankfully said nothing), and plucked the strings, making small tuning adjustments and finally tucking the instrument beneath his chin, lifting the bow to hover tentatively before beginning the piece.

Holmes turned his back on me and played instead to the empty street outside our dimly lit sitting room. He played as though accompanied by a full orchestra, and one could easily imagine the same elegant figure echoing each alteration in tempo and swaying in tandem with his mental metronome for an audience of thousands. I watched his scapulae move in kaleidoscopic patterns beneath his silk waistcoat and eventually allowed my eyes to fall shut, my heart consumed by the nostalgia in the music and by the man who brought the notes to life.

I blinked as Holmes drew the last few melancholic notes from the strings. He stared at the cool darkness beyond the window, holding the violin loosely at his side like a child’s teddy bear. When he pivoted to face me, the usual mask was not yet in place, but his countenance was nonetheless difficult to read: it might have been the effects of the piece I had just heard, but I perceived a yearning for the past, and perhaps also for a future that could never be. I inhaled deeply, preparing to ask a question and steeling myself for the inevitable response. Anticipating that I would break the silence, Holmes set down the instrument and brushed past me with a mumbled “G’night, Watson.”

Impulsively I stood and caught hold of his cuff. He turned around, but kept his eyes fixed on the point where my fingers met the inside of his wrist. My left hand rose to shift his hair into place, brushing it away from his temple and forehead, and I pressed my lips softly to his hairline, his brow, his nose. 

“We shall never have the opportunity to return to the beginning, Watson.”

“That may be so, my dear friend. But perhaps we can begin something new.”

Finally Holmes raised his eyes to meet mine, and with that gesture of confirmation, our lips met without grace or subtlety. There was no feeling of desperation for an unreachable past, nor were we hurried by the possibilities of the future. We simply followed one another’s lead, hands smoothing across shoulders, brushing below cheekbones, grasping through hair and dipping below collars, and silently agreed that the present was undoubtedly the most ideal.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The first fic I ever wrote for Basil (vernets), aka "Yes I Can Be Cute Thank You Very Much"


End file.
